Он Юн - Бурлюк
текст песни

Five in the morning, I return home by Nevsky,
At night it was a cool party.
Suddenly the street was filled with noise and crack
And I see what I read about in the anthology.

But what he saw tougher than the phrases read,
The bottle of tequila fell from the hands:
Through your to a scream torn eyes
Climbing, distraught, Burliuk.

I got out, and crashed into the dirty asphalt,
The whole body is in cuts, as if he was carved.
He corrected Lornet and asked: "Is this hell?" -
“Worse, David, this is two thousandth.

Here we are not in fashion printing word,
Architecture became multi-storey barracks "-
"And what about the poetry of the new?"-
"Ivan Dorn and Vitya Aka."

Through his iPhone, he turned on the short track,
He cried, and said: “There is nothing to add ...
What kind of box is this? "-
“This is access to all the knowledge of mankind.

But we use it to watch porn,
Or boast of what we eat for lunch.
Or listen to Ivan Dorn ... ".
Burliuk yelled: "Nooo !!".

And disappeared somewhere also sharply,
As soon as recently appeared suddenly.
Fucking. It is necessary to click on Nevsky,
Write that Burliuk was here.

Dostoevsky lost half the salary
In slot machines,
Life, like a rubbish detective
In a soft cover, not notes from a dead house
And something at the Bushkov level
From a meeting of alcoholics anonymous
Two steps to the quarter-liter quarter
On foot on a blacksmith when not on a taxi
The second volume of dead souls in Schroeder does not climb
Gogol hanged himself
In an apartment with the aroma of Rafflesia
And Zabolotsky is not up to poetry
There are too many problems around
For some reason, Kretin
In Erart, they again refused Kandinsky - what a whore!
And for Malevich, shoes are already a problem
He has a hundred pairs from Aecdem
But there is still nowhere to exhibit
On a small garden garbage again
Under the root, the installation is crushed
Belinsky leads the Blacks in LiveJournal
Everything was already fucked already
And he writes in a fit of powerless rage
Shit this is your party
Shit this Oberiu and shame!
Harms has already scored hemp in Belomor
And drunk Fedor Mikhalych
Everything beats him on pranks:
Let's remember the classics
About Max Korzh, about guf and caste,
What did we learn their works
But we go to the Tauride
To the tweeter to conduct observations
There the unrequited Marx fades along the craft
And Lenin - bald gay and eternal student
He weaves red ribbons in dreadlocks
And on the asphalt draws swastikas
Meanwhile, somewhere on Petrogradka
Behind the glass of cheap whiskey
One more and in the absorption
To a country where the words mean nothing at all
Yes, it is full of you, all the same.
Have you somehow wanted different?